Two Of A Kind
by the-beginning-of-the-end
Summary: Tim Shepard always considered himself to be tough. He always thought that if it came down to it, he could take on the world by himself. But now his best friend's gone and he's beginning to realise that he never once thought he'd be truly alone.


AN: because Timothy Shepard fascinates me.

STANDARD DISCLAIMER APPLIES

--

Tim Shepard always considered himself to be tough. He always thought that if it came down to it, he could take on the world by himself. But now his best friend's gone and he's beginning to realise that he never once thought he'd be truly alone.

--

I jogged down the rotten wooden steps, shoving my arms into my jacket sleeves as I went. The sun was barely breaking through the clouds, and I had half a mind to go back upstairs to the apartment and sleep. The result of too much alcohol was not a good thing.

I stepped onto the asphalt, searching in my pocket for my keys. I'd finally gotten the wheels replaced yesterday. My car was parked on the other side of the small parking area reserved for residents, between a beat-up old truck and a scratched motorcycle. No flash cars around here. Not unless you want it stolen.

"Where you off to, boy?"

The man addressing me lived in the apartment below ours. He was pretty old, his hair grey and the skin around his eyes wrinkled. Old people are another thing you don't see around here. But this guy, he was okay. He'd given me an alibi when the cops had come around one night, asking about a robbery.

"Hospital." I replied briefly, flicking through my set of keys to find the one that would unlock my car.

The old man laughed, wheezed, then laughed some more. "Those boys of yours causing grief again?"

I opened my car door. _Those boys of yours_. I laughed bitterly to myself. Yeah, those boys of **mine**.

"Give them a good clap around the ears and you should have them straightened out. Teach them a good lesson in respect."

-

I was used to the hospital smell. It was cleaning products and dead flowers. It disgusted most people. Not me. I spent more time here than in school. It was just something you accepted.

I didn't bother asking the nurse where he'd be. He'd be in the same place they throw the rest of us hoods, far away from anyone else. Can't have good, law-abiding commonfolk mixed in with ex-cons and kids who wear too much grease in their hair. Might start a riot. Can't have that.

"Look, I'll smoke wherever the hell I want."

I smirked, "And why would I care where you're killing yourself?"

Dallas snapped around, a cigarette in his hand. His eyes flashed surprise for a moment, before he settled back in the hospital bed and took another drag. I wandered into his room.

"What are you doing here?"

I shrugged, "Your guess is as good as mine. That Curtis kid came by and told me you were here."

"Pony? How is he?"

Dallas' voice was a little too quick for my liking. "No, the middle one. Said he thought I should know." I reached over and took the cigarette off him. He cursed at me, but I ignored him and took a puff.

"And you came all the way down here because Soda told you to?" Dallas said, his tone scornful.

I laughed, "Of course not. I came down here because I saw you in the paper. What's all this about you being a hero?"

He cursed again and snatched the smoke back.

"They must've got the words wrong. Your face in the paper should have Wanted: Dead or Alive, beneath it." I drawled, giving the metal bed pole a kick. "They didn't even put in some pretty words about your police record" I lent against the wall, taking a cigarette from my pocket and lighting it. I stood there, watching him. He was looking at the far wall, clearly thinking about something - someone - else.

"There's a rumble coming up," I said casually and he turned back to me. "Greasers against the Socs. Darrel reckons you guys need more fighters, called us in to help." I grinned suddenly, "You ain't gonna be there, after all."

He glared at me, a look I was used to getting from him. He ground his cigarette out on the cabinet beside him. "I'm gonna be there."

"No you ain't. I heard you have to stay in here for a while, til your arm heals up," I nodded at his bandaged arm, taking a puff of my smoke. "You ain't any help to nobody with a screwed up arm."

"More help than you are." He mumbled, rolling over to face away from me. I didn't laugh, though it did amuse me. I took another drag before stepping away from the wall and over to him.

He turned slightly, more instinct than choice. I blew out the smoke over him. "That kid, the quiet one, he ain't looking too good."

He stiffened, but didn't reply.

"What are you gonna do when he dies, Dally?" I asked, leaning in closer to him.

He shrunk away, "He ain't gonna die, Tim."

"Yer he is. I seen a guy get burnt less than that and he still died."

"Yeah? What else did you do to the guy then?" He replied dryly.

I dropped my cigarette and ground it out with my heel. "I don't think you can take it. I think you'll lose it. I've heard the way you talk about the kid."

He turned over and sat up. His eyes were alit and his face had hardened. "You don't know nothing about me, Shepard."

I grinned, and it wasn't a happy grin. "I reckon you'll probably think about me when you go down, and get a good kick out of the trouble it causes me."

He laughed bitterly. "Screwing you over is my main ambition in life," He drawled sarcastically.

I shrugged and backed off. "No, the kid is. And that's the problem."

I walked out of the hospital room and down the corridor. I passed the Johnny kid's room and looked inside. He was asleep on the bed. I closed the door and headed out of the hospital, cursing myself for being able to read Dallas Winston so well.


End file.
